


Chronicle

by supernutellastuff



Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Angst, Dark, Epistolary, F/M, Family Secrets, Gothic, Mystery, Period Typical Attitudes, but set in the 1930s, kind of, not a ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 10:13:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16447910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernutellastuff/pseuds/supernutellastuff
Summary: The ghost of Mikaelson Manor still haunts its corridors.1930s AU. Following the sudden demise of Mikael, Caroline Forbes is hired to write about the Mikaelson family history. Initially drawn to the mystery of his death, Caroline realises her mind seems to be dwelling less on the task at hand and more on the enigma that is Klaus Mikaelson.





	Chronicle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [withyouandthemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withyouandthemoon/gifts).



> Written for the Klaroline Sweet Sap exchange for withyouandthemoon. This turned out to be longer than I expected but I had fun writing it. Hope this fulfills your brief and that you enjoy it! (Don't worry there's no horror though there might be some creepy elements :P)
> 
> I've tried to be as historically accurate as possible, except for some creative liberties for the sake of the story.

**From Caroline Forbes to Enzo St. John:**

Dear Enzo,

South of France is heaven. If I had only a day left on earth I would spend it here. I can just about picture your self-satisfied smile reading this, thinking “I told you so.” Smugness is not an attractive trait, Mr. St. John.

Something strange happened to me last week. An older gentleman from England approached me. He wished to hire my services to write about his landed family—the Mikaelsons of Sussex. Have you heard of them? They’re an old and wealthy family, although they don't hold any titles. I refused, seeing that I was on a holiday and work was the furthest thing on my mind. Sir Mikael was quite persistent, which only made my refusal stronger. I’m glad I did so, for his stubbornness was creating a scene and making me somewhat uncomfortable.

Should I be flattered that my name is now well-regarded? Perhaps. Nowadays I find myself being drawn to fiction. It’s a good escape from reality. I shall finish my novel, Enzo. You’ll see. Soon.

Love,

Caroline.

 

 

**From Enzo St. John to Caroline Forbes:**

Dear Caroline,

I know you can see me saying it in your head but just in case, here are the words on paper: I. Told. You. So.

I’m glad South of France is treating you well, and that you’re making headway with your novel. As much as I enjoy your fiction, I must confess your non-fiction holds a special place in my heart. If not for your work tracing the histories of noble families, we would not have met!

It is intriguing you mention Sir Mikael. I remembered reading about him in the papers and after going through your letter I dug up the article. I’ve included a cutting with this letter. Make of it what you will.

Love,

Enzo.

 

 

**From Caroline Forbes to Enzo St. John:**

Dear Enzo,

I recall the desperation in his eyes when he came to me that day. Or am I imagining it after the fact? Did he approach me with the knowledge that these would be the last days of his life? Perhaps my refusal was the very thing that spurred him to take the drastic step?

The news of Sir Mikael’s death has shaken me, Enzo. I cannot sleep. I read that it was ruled as a suicide at the conquest? As my publisher, I know what you’d want me to do…and I agree. I’ve checked out of the hotel. I’m coming back to London. Could you do me a favour and book me the 6:10 to Sussex?

Yours,

Caroline.

 

 

**From Elijah Mikaelson to Caroline Forbes:**

Dear Miss Forbes,

I must admit your letter took me by surprise. I hope you understand that this is a trying time for the family and an outsider’s presence in the Manor will perhaps be less than appreciated by my siblings. However Father left strict instructions with Salvatore & Saltzman. It seems that hiring you to write about the Mikaelson history was his last wish and I must honour that. At the same time, if you were to withdraw the fees Father left you lump sum and desist in your endeavour, we would not look twice.

Yours sincerely,

Elijah Mikaelson.

 

 

**From Caroline Forbes to Enzo St. John:**

Dear Enzo,

Grief is a strange thing. It manifests itself in the unlikeliest of places.

I can see it in their dark clothes, in the simple food the underbutler brings to the table, in the way the velvet drapes are never drawn open. Where I cannot place grief is in the candlelight winking on Rebekah’s face, the chattering Kol replaces dinnertime conversation with, the precise cuts made by Elijah’s knife, and the dark red wine Klaus drinks like water.

Their mother, Esther, has been “taken ill” ever since her husband’s death. Why the quotation marks, you ask? It is because I have not laid eyes on her ever since my arrival. Has she been banished to the attic like a madwoman?

On a more serious note, my first few days were spent mainly in the library. There are records dating back to the Middle Ages and a particularly fascinating tapestry chronicling the Mikaelson family tree. A few names have been struck out; twining strands and extended relatives completely obliterated. I shall inquire about these forgotten Mikaelsons later.

I have breakfast and dinner with the family in the dining hall (though no one usually bothers to come downstairs in the morning) and am sent a cold lunch on a tray to the library. It is a laborious but satisfying process—taking notes, cross-referencing family records, perusing old journals, contacting my archivist friends in London, and typing it all up on my trusty Featherweight at night.

The most challenging part of my work is separating myth from fact. Sometimes I cannot help but wonder, isn’t history a subjective experience as well? What are written words but memories burned into ink, subject to distortions and revisions?

I digress.

The fact most pressing at the time is this: the proud Mikaelson patriarch committed suicide in the first week of February by hanging himself. It is my responsibility as a chronicler to sift through the myths surrounding his death and locate the why. I do not expect cooperation from the Mikaelsons in this respect—Elijah’s “warm” letter made this very clear—but I hope to make a head start.

Love,

Caroline.

 

 

**From Finn Mikaelson to Caroline Forbes:**

Dear Miss Forbes,

I appreciate your tenacity. Even my most loved siblings find it difficult to get in touch with me when I’m at sea. Somehow you, a young American woman, managed.

What can I say about Father? Truthfully, not a lot. We had been more or less estranged for the better part of a decade. A life of trade and travel, with my wife Sage beside me, makes me happy. Father never understood that. He was very proud of his family lineage. Fanatical about following traditions, keeping up the family name. He pestered historians and journalists and was always ready to talk about his ancestors and the glorious lives they led. It is not surprising that he sought you out.

Of course I heard of his suicide. It saddened me immensely. No, I do not know what prompted him to take his own life. It did come as a shock but as I’ve mentioned, I was never close to Father. Already his memory is blinking into the distance like a ship on the horizon.

Please convey my love to my siblings. I am not sure when I will come to visit. May they have the strength to carry them through these unfortunate times.

Yours sincerely,

Finn Mikaelson.

 

 

**From Caroline Forbes to Enzo St. John:**

Dear Enzo,

A short trip to the village has proven to be fruitful. Setting aside the many embellishments, I can safely presume that Elijah is an able heir, a man of few words but the ability to command respect. Finn, they don’t talk of much ever since he chose the life of the sea, but even so remember him fondly for all the work he’s done for the village. Rebekah is their darling, the beautiful lady who’s always ready to organise charities and flower shows at the hall. Kol is notoriously charming, and a frequent visitor to the local pub. As for Klaus, well if Elijah exacts respect then Klaus is feared in equal measures. They would not tell me why but I suspect it has something to do with his stint at the war.

It is strange but I cannot seem to find him anywhere. He never attends breakfast and always disappears after dinner. A particularly imaginative maid told me how he prowls through the corridors at night, keeping to the shadows; how his bed is never unmade; how she has to replenish the candles in his room every morning.

Utter nonsense. But intriguing all the same.

I have managed to interview all his siblings. Rebekah is the only woman my age in the house (no sign of Esther yet, I have been subtly thwarted in every attempt to contact her). She is bright, vivacious, and at times, catty. At the recollection of her father’s last day, she grew sombre.

“We had just received a new batch of Darjeeling tea—Father’s favourite. I had been learning how to cook in the kitchen; a passing fancy I suppose,” she told me. “I took it up for him. Kol was there. We chatted for a bit, drank our tea, then Father bade us goodnight and retired to his bedroom. And that was it. The last time I ever saw him.”

Rebekah and Kol are quite alike, although I would wager he has a much more impulsive nature. It's pleasant spending time with them when I take a break from work. Kol is surprisingly adept at the piano and Rebekah frequently manages to inveigle me into singing. Elijah is usually away on business but when he is at home he joins us for bridge. He’s a patient, calculating player.

Klaus rarely makes an appearance. Rebekah told me he’s an artist and that he’s always “cooped up in his studio, painting depressing scenes”. Perhaps I’ll pay him a visit tomorrow.

Love,

Caroline.

* * *

Klaus is painting a landscape, Tchaikovsky playing on the gramophone, when she walks in. She silently admires the dark shades and strong brush strokes of the moorland before clearing her throat.

“Hello.” She smiles tentatively. “Sorry to bother you, I just sort of stumbled upon this room.”

The arch of a dark eyebrow tells her that he hasn’t bought into her ruse.

“Do you suppose we could have a chat?” she asks before he can object.

Klaus shrugs and points to a chaise. “What do you want to know?”

It’s the first time she’s heard his voice in such an intimate environment. She’d expected something deep and gravelly, not this light tone with an undercurrent of dry amusement.

“Well, we could start with what the Mikaelson name means to you, then you could tell me something about your father.”

“I have one word for you.”

“What?”

“Bastard. My father was a bastard.”

Caroline almost drops her pen. “Do you mean in the literal sense…?”

A wry smirk twists his features. “No, in the figurative sense. Definitely in the figurative sense.”

She waits for him to elaborate but he turns back to his painting. She sets her bag on a chair over which a fur-trimmed cloak is thrown. There is a long pause.

“Mr. Mikaelson,” she prompts, beginning to feel irritated. “We were talking.”

Klaus makes a dismissive gesture with his paintbrush. “Well, this conversation is over.”

“No I do not think so.” Her smile is pleasantly cold. “You still haven’t answered my questions.”

“You will receive a better answer if you talk to Rebekah or Kol.” He sneers. “One that would fit in neatly with your pretty little book.”

 “Well pardon me, Mr. _Mikaelson_ , for wanting my book to be thoroughly researched,” she hisses. “I do not expect _you_ to understand work ethic since you possibly have never felt the need to lift a finger for anything in life, but the least I can expect from you is respect for my job, which oddly enough, involves writing about _your_ family.”

She stops to take a breath. The blank expression on Klaus’s face wavers.

“If not for me, then you can at least make an effort for your father. Respect his last wish,” she finishes quietly.

It turns out to be the wrong thing to say.

“Get out.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, _get out_!”

The rage in his eyes takes her breath away, and she turns and flees.

* * *

  **From Caroline Forbes to Enzo St. John:**

Dear Enzo,

It seems I’ve stuffed it. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten off on such a wrong foot with anyone. But it was not my fault, Enzo, you must see that. I am used to mercurial lords, volatile dukes, fastidious ladies and snobbish countesses. But the condescension in Klaus’s voice makes my blood boil.

A mere mention of his father gives rise to immediate feelings of bitterness and anger in Klaus. Was their relationship that irreparable that its pernicious influence still persists in these outbursts? Or did I overstep my boundary as an “outsider”, asking impertinent questions?

Even if his lashing out was a manifestation of suppressed grief, I still cannot condone it being used as an excuse to disrespect someone else. This is not to say that his actions strongly hurt my feelings, for that would imply that I care about his perception of me. I merely cannot reconcile the sullen, ice-cold man I see at dinner with this livid, passionate creature. Perhaps the villagers are right to fear him.

Love,

Caroline.

* * *

 Tired, Caroline borrows a fascinating book on the War of the Roses from the library. Her head is aching and she isn’t in the mood to edit her notes.

However, the night is too quiet without the clacking of her typewriter. Whispers of wind squeeze through her partially open window and tickle the back of her neck. She gazes out into the dark and blinks in amazement. _Was that someone walking on the frosted lawn? Who would be mad enough to be out at this time of the night?_ Perhaps her eyes are playing tricks on her. She needs sleep.

Caroline tentatively ventures out of her room, hopeful for a cup of warm milk and honey. She almost makes a turn for the grand staircase when she recognises the room at the end of the corridor to be Mikael’s. Before she can think much about it, she extends a hand to push the door open.

As old married couples who had done their duty were often wont to do, Mikael and Esther slept in separate bedrooms. The former’s room was sparsely furnished except for the poster hangings on his bed, richly embroidered with the family crest. The air is slightly stale.

It is a peculiar experience—standing in a room where someone has died. Caroline keeps expecting the shade of Mikael’s memory to jump out at her from the behind the curtains. All the same, she feels only a momentary tremor of hesitation before walking over to a chest of drawers, sliding them open at random.

But there are no personal documents or letters left for her to plunder. Mikael had not even left a suicide note, she remembers. Clearly he wasn’t a man of the written word.

An unbidden tableau of images pop up in her mind as she takes one last look around—Mikael wishing his family goodnight, the Darjeeling warm in his stomach; the valet stumbling into the body of his master the next day, running to call Esther—no maybe he would go to Elijah first; the other Mikaelsons trooping in to find the dead body swinging like a pendulum. Someone would invariably faint and Elijah would calmly instruct the butler to call the police…

For some reason, Caroline cannot imagine the last moments leading up to his death. Back in her room, with a soothing glass of milk, she writes.

_Did he plan everything beforehand or did he chance upon the rope on one of his walks and think of the terrible idea? Was he sure of his decision or did he have last-minute doubts? Did he claw at his throat in vain once the chair had been kicked over? Did his life flash before his eyes?_

Caroline exhales in frustration. Surely she cannot use this in her book. She crumples the paper and tosses it into the waste bin.

The ink on her fingers looks like blood.

.

.

“I can’t wait to introduce you to Stefan Salvatore,” Rebekah gushes. “He’s such a charming man. Oh, please say you’ll dance with him!”

“All right, if you so.” Her reply is not unenthusiastic. It’s been too long since she’s had the chance to dress up and attend a house party. Tonight she is wearing a dress of pale yellow silk with teardrop emerald earrings that match her eyes perfectly.

If Caroline is dull gold, Rebekah is a fiery blaze. The flashing rubies adorning her neck bring out the deep maroon of her dress. Not for the first time, Caroline feels envious of her blonde companion. “Salvatore as in Salvatore & Saltzman?”

“No that is his older brother, Damon. He’s over there talking to Elena Gilbert. Fancies himself to be a bit of a rake.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Not at all. Stefan isn’t like him. You’ll see.”

After the initial novelty of Caroline’s presence and work wears off, the guests gravitate towards known faces and old friends. She finds herself more and more at the side-lines, sampling the hors’ doeuvres and watching dancing couples.

“Miss Forbes. Didn’t think I would see you here.”

She turns sharply to see Klaus dressed in impeccable white tails, holding two flutes of champagne.

“Your sister was kind enough to invite me.” She accepts the glass and suspiciously scrutinises the relaxed set of his face.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself too much.”

“I was until now,” she mutters before she can stop herself.

Klaus merely grins. “Fair enough. Miss Forbes, I actually came here to apologise.”

“No matter. Perhaps I was wrong to ask such _personal_ questions,” she replies wryly.

His smile sets her on edge.

“No but as you correctly pointed out, that is precisely your job. I was…wrong to make assumptions about your work.”

She nods, scanning the crowd for a familiar face she could latch on to and escape.

“I read your books.”

“Really?”

“Your account of the supposed lycanthropy curse of the Lockwoods was fascinating. And the Rathbone history was meticulously detailed. Although I did hear a different version of the Blue Star incident when I was visiting Budapest.”

Despite herself, Caroline smiles. “Is that so?”

“Maybe you will allow me to tell you about it tomorrow. After I answer all your questions.”

She’s tempted to ask what was in his drink to make him so uncharacteristically polite and charming. “I think that would be an acceptable offer.”

His eyes flash and for a moment she wonders if the pact she made was wise…

“Caroline! There you are. Look who’s here.”

“Apologies for being late,” says the dark-haired arrival. “My car broke down on the way.”

“Nik, you’ve met Stefan before I believe?”

Klaus nods. “Once, in Chicago.”

“And this is Caroline Forbes, who is writing a book on our family. Caroline, this is Stefan Salvatore, an old friend of mine.”

Stefan kisses her hand. “Miss Forbes, I hear that you specialise in the study of family histories.” Warm brown eyes smile down at her.

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Then maybe you could explain how I turned out to have Damon as a brother.”

Even Klaus cracks a smile. “Oh, Caroline only deigns to write about the noble houses. Not people like you,” laughs Rebekah.

“If she is looking for scandalous secrets then look no further than the Salvatores. We have quite a few skeletons stashed away in the closet.”

“Really, Mr. Salvatore? After years of research, there is very little that surprises me.”

“One of my ancestors was rumoured to be mass-murderer. The Ripper of Monterey, they called him.”

“Fascinating. But my work goes beyond uncovering shocking secrets from the past. My books are rigorous and academic. I leave gossip to the papers.”

“Oh but isn’t it more fun to read about the many sordid affairs of Aurora de Martel than her ancestors’ contribution to the war effort?” says Stefan.

She shakes her head. “My work has more weight than trashy tabloids. There’s more to history than dates and deeds. What makes a family a family? Think about it, Mr. Salvatore, you do not choose where you are born. How do you learn to become a part of your family, so much so that your identity is indistinguishable from the family? What makes us the way we are?”

Rebekah yawns. “This is boring me to death. Look, the band has started playing again!”

From the corner of her eye she notices Klaus gazing at her with intense eyes. Caroline blushes. She tends to get carried away with her rants.

“Personally I find history _riveting_ ,” drawls Klaus.

“I’m sure you do.” Stefan turns towards her. “How about it, want to give it a twirl? You can tell me more about your work?”

“I’d rather not talk about work anymore, but sure, why not.”

He’s a good dancer and knows to maintain a respectable distance between them. They chat about pleasant matters and she finds his brand of self-deprecating humour refreshing. Stefan spins her around and she catches sight of Klaus smiling and conversing with a group of men. For the second time in the night she wonders why his actions seemed so jarring.

It is only when his friends move away and he is left on his own, frowning into a glass, his profile angled towards the window, that Caroline realises. This solitary silhouette in a sea of champagne laughter and gilded persiflage, is the real Niklaus Mikaelson.

.

.

They’ve run out of things to say.

“I had a lovely time today,” he whispers as they’re strolling in the lawns.

“Oh, me too,” she replies. “But I’m afraid I should head back.”

“So soon?” Stefan looks mildly disappointed.

“Well I’m feeling rather tired and—”.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I saw someone there.”

She turns. The branches form a skeletal cage around them, waving and pointing in the air. Her footsteps crunch in the light smattering of snow as she moves towards where Stefan is squinting.

“That’s the greenhouse,” she murmurs as a dark figure sidles up to the door and lets itself in. “Maybe that’s the gardener.”

“So late? And he seems to be wearing a fur coat. Maybe it’s a drunk guest on some secret assignation.” He winks.

But Caroline is no longer in the mood. They walk back to the Manor in silence.

* * *

**From Caroline Forbes to Enzo St. John:**

Dear Enzo,

I spent the afternoon in a gallery with portraits of Mikaelsons past. It was gratifying to put faces to the names I’ve been writing about day and night. I hadn’t imagined Abraxas Mikaelson to be so stout, or Juliana, who died tragically young, to be so stunningly beautiful. Here and there, I caught glimpses of the family features—Rebekah’s eyes, Elijah’s jawline, Kol’s nose.

My gaze kept drifting towards the painting of Mikael, the year of death incongruously fresh on the little wooden panel. The artist captured the haughty tilt of his chin perfectly, although I have trouble reconciling the dark and foreboding look in his painted eyes with the wild and desperate ones I’d faced in France.

It struck me then, Enzo, that I am basing my entire judgment on those few brief encounters with him, as well as on public perception and second-hand recollection. “I don’t know you,” I said aloud to the painting like the completely sane woman I am. “What are you trying to tell me?”

Kol brought up something interesting in the morning. The Japanese consider suicide to be the socially acceptable way of coping with shame or dishonour. They call it Seppuku—a knife straight to the stomach. A noble way to die. Elijah swiftly changed the subject, mentioning that it wasn’t appropriate to talk of such things during breakfast. It was just the three of us at the table.

Does it seem plausible that Mikael committed suicide out of a misguided sense of honour? A perceived or real slight to this pride would have been a grave insult to him, or rather the Mikaelson name.

Grave enough to take his own life?

Perhaps.

As the days go by, it becomes clearer that the ghost of Mikaelson Manor still haunts its corridors. The key to unlocking the Mikaelsons is to solve the mystery behind the patriarch’s death. If I am to understand them, their lives, their stories, I must first get into Mikael’s head in the last few hours of his life.

Love,

Caroline.

* * *

True to his word, Klaus meets Caroline in his studio after dinner. This time there is no canvas set up on the easel and he moves to switch off the gramophone when she enters. She tells him to leave it on, Melba providing an appropriate background score.

“My relationship with my father was a complex one, as you might have gathered already.” He flashes a humourless smile over the rim of his glass. “He had these… expectations of me, expectations that any man would find difficult to meet. Oh, I tried my best. But it was never enough.”

He turns his back to her, carefully surveying the grounds.

“What exactly were these expectations?”

“He wanted me to run the estate. In the exact way he wanted,” he replies, back facing her. “Elijah would still inherit the money, with Finn giving up his claim. But he wished me to take up the responsibility of living here for the rest of my life and looking after the estate. Elijah didn’t mind, he was the obedient son. But, you see, I _wasn’t_.”

“And that was the main bone of contention?”

“There were other disagreements. It got… stifling after a while. He had become possessive lately about the house, the family. Poor man, he knew he was at the fag end of his life. That control was slipping from his hands.”

Klaus moves to the sidebar and pours himself another drink without offering Caroline. He’s still not facing her, as if he doesn’t want anyone to see his face in this moment of personal recollection.

“Well, we had a huge row a few weeks ago. We were not on speaking terms. And then he died.”

When he finally turns towards her, his face is unreadable. “You can understand how I felt.”

They stare at each other for a few moments, the air around them buzzing with something demanding Caroline’s attention. Was that why he lashed out? Because he felt guilty of fighting with his father before he died? Only…

She feels his steady gaze on her as he asks, “So is that all you wanted to know? I can’t tell you much about my ancestors, however. I’m afraid I’m not much of a history buff.”

“Strange. At the party you found history ‘riveting’,” she points out.

Klaus laughs lightly. “I was just trying to defend your work, Miss Forbes.”

Caroline takes a look at his charming smile and relaxed stance and feels unnerved. The buzzing in her head increases.

“I appreciate that, Mr Mikaelson,” she finds herself saying, “I think we’re done for today.”

She moves to walk out the door and then, out of the corner of her eyes, she sees, or rather feels it. A sigh.

She stops.

“You’re lying.”

When she whirls around, there is a polite, perplexed frown on Klaus’s face.

“I beg your pardon?”

She slams her bag so hard on the table that her notes spill out. Her hands are shaking. She doesn’t know why she is so furious.

“This was all an act you put on! Being so nice, acting like a gentleman, chatting me up at the party, all a ruse so you could feed me a sob story and get rid of me. I almost fell for it!”

It is astonishing how quickly a man’s expression can change.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growls. But a sliver of malice in his eyes tells her all that she needs to know.

“Oh, I do,” she continues, “the first day, it was the real you yelling at me. Yesterday at the party and today, pouring out all your troubles so seamlessly, it’s like an actor playing a role. And how do I know? Well, _this_ ,”—she points violently at her notes—“is my damn job and one thing I’m good at is reading people and knowing when they’re being honest or leading me on a wild goose chase!”

She falls silent, chest heaving. Klaus’s stunned features rearrange themselves into his familiar poker face and she knows he’s thinking of another lie to smooth-talk his way out of this.

“You’re making assumptions, love.”

“In all these years, I’ve never come across anyone who tried to bully me into writing the history they wanted.”

“I’m flattered that I’m your first,” is his curt reply.

Despite herself, Caroline laughs. It’s a short, bitter laugh.

She holds up a hand. “The question is,” she whispers. “What are you trying to hide, Niklaus Mikaelson?”

He flinches.

“Whatever it is, I will find it,” she promises gravely, collecting all her belongings. “And I will write about it. You cannot stop me.”

She pauses on the way to the door.

“It was nice talking to you. An illuminating conversation indeed.”

.

.

Ink splatters her fingers and her pen tears furious holes in the paper but Caroline doesn’t stop writing.

_The impertinence of Klaus Mikaelson is insufferable. In all my years as a researcher I’ve never come across anyone who forced my hand so. Sure, there were many who wanted to keep secrets hidden, unsavoury pasts glossed over. But I always managed to navigate those tricky waters. Truth always prevailed._

She rubs her nose with red-stained fingers and exhales heavily.

_A true wolf in sheep’s clothing. A less intelligent woman would have fallen for that charming exterior. This was not just a ploy to hide some terrible secret; the whole charade reeked of something greater, more symbolic. By feeding me a bland story of father-son conflict that I’ve heard from countless other heirs, he no doubt thought I would never attempt to look at alternative versions._

_What Klaus Mikaelson doesn’t know is that I am a consummate professional and truth is all I seek._

She pauses for a moment, takes a deep breath and viciously tears out the last two paragraphs. Her feelings vented thus, she continues.

_The ease with which Klaus slipped into his roles made me wonder of his real identity. Is this a Mikaelson family trait? How much of the family do I know beneath Elijah’s politeness, Rebekah’s laughter, Kol’s banter? I cannot help but think that this hybrid identity of Klaus’s is the product of his ties with the rest of his family, especially Mikael. The question being, is Klaus the way he is because of his family or despite them?_

She pours herself a glass of water from the ceramic jug kept by her bedside. She watches the flickering flame of the candle as her fury and indignation subsides into curious detachment.

_The more my mind ponders over this incident, the surer I am that out of all the siblings, Klaus is the most similar to their late father. When I compare him to the man I first met in the studio to the one in the party, the latter seems to have a brassy veneer while the former is more of a mirror to Mikael. And by that I mean an inverted refraction. Same but not quite._

_I wonder what it would look like, him standing face-to-face with the man in the portrait. What strings bind them to each other, as well as to the Mikaelson legacy? And more importantly, which of these tangled strings does Klaus not want me to unspool?_

.

.

Dinner is a subdued affair. Noticing but not quite understanding the tension between Klaus and Caroline, the rest of the Mikaelsons let the conversation peter out into perfunctory remarks and monosyllabic replies. Caroline, for her part, focuses on her meal. Though the food is unremarkable, the Mikaelsons always pair it with the best wine and today’s no exception.

The whole time she pretends that Klaus isn’t seated to her right, though she cannot help noticing that he only ever drinks red wine.

She contrives to catch each sibling alone, and casually inquire about the relationship between Klaus and Mikael. Kol regards her with a smirk and innocently asks her to justify how it’s related to her book. Rebekah, eyes weary, simply says “It’s Klaus’s story to tell.” Elijah vaguely describes it is a “difficult” father-son relationship, but nothing remarkable. He pauses before asking whether she wished him to have a word with his brother regarding his behaviour.

“No, thank you,” replies Caroline immediately. “I can handle him on my own.”

Klaus Mikaelson was like a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out weaknesses and Caroline was not about to give him another chance.

* * *

**From Enzo St. John to Caroline Forbes:**

Dear Caroline,

It is thrilling reading about your progress with the book. I look forward to getting your frequent updates. Like you, I might be a trifle too obsessed with the death that started it all.

However, as your publisher, there are some things that worry me. Let me quote your previous correspondences:

“There is a buzzing in the air, full of unspoken words and almost phrases. These interest me more than the exploits of long-dead ancestors.”

Or:

“Sometimes I forget how old the Mikaelsons really are. Biologically they may be young, but the weight of centuries of family traditions and expectations sometimes takes a physical manifestation in them. On good days it gives them confidence in their gait, a sense of entitlement in their tone. On bad days it settles in the slump of their shoulders, and is reflected in the world-weariness in their eyes.

Often I wonder how they haven’t cracked yet with their father constantly extolling them to live up to the lofty Mikaelson name, right up until his death.”

We cannot have such leading, personal reflections in the book. It is dangerous to get distracted from the job, Caroline. I understand your frustration while Mikael’s death remains a big question mark, but remember that you’re only there as a chronicler. Nothing more.

Love,

Enzo.

P. S. If the splattered ink and vicious rips in your last letter were of any indication, Klaus Mikaelson has left an extremely strong impression on you. For someone who claims not to stand him, you sure talk a lot about him.

 

 

**From Caroline Forbes to Enzo St. John:**

Dear Enzo,

I cannot believe you’re accusing me of a wild imagination when your flights of fancy are even more far-fetched than mine. For now, I’m just going to ignore your insinuations regarding Klaus Mikaelson and tell you this-

I had a breakthrough.

I was at the local inn, The Quarter. It’s run by Sophie and her sister Jane-Ann. I’ve become quite friendly with them and often drop by on my visits to the village. It was Sophie who mentioned in passing the arrival of Tatia Petrova at the Manor half a year ago.

Tatia Petrova. Remember her, Enzo? It seems I cannot leave the Petrovas behind. Is it a coincidence that my last assignment was on the Petrovas in Bulgaria? Is that why Mikael specifically sought me out? Why have the Mikaelsons not mentioned her until now? Does it have something to do with her abrupt departure from the Manor?

I have a feeling I am very close to uncovering the reason behind Mikael’s suicide.

Love,

Caroline.

* * *

Elijah treats their conversation like a business meeting.

“I only have a few minutes, Miss Forbes,” he says politely but briskly. “I have to go to town and sort out some affairs.”

 “I’ve heard Lady Tatia Petrova came to visit a year ago.”

“That is true,” he says. “May I ask what that has to do with anything?”

“Curiosity, I suppose. I wrote a book on the Petrova family.”

“Mother and Rebekah were glad to have her company. She is a charming woman.”

“Really? I’ve heard otherwise.”

Elijah’s steely gaze bores into her. “Really, Miss Forbes, I do not have time for malicious rumours.”

Caroline calmly flips through her notes. “When I was in Bulgaria, staying at the Petrova estate, I found Tatia’s absence odd. Especially so soon after her beloved father’s death. People talked.”

“I believed I made it clear I have no interest in hearing what people gossip about.”

“However,” she continues over him, “no one was more delighted to talk to me than her younger sister, Katerina. She told me of the scandal that preceded her departure. Of the married man she ruined, the broken home she left behind, the wife who committed suicide, and the child she rendered practically orphan.”

“Miss Forbes!” He jumps to his feet, looming over her. “I will not stand these absolutely baseless insinuations!”

“Elijah, please listen!” she says hurriedly before he can leave. “Tatia Petrova never went back to Bulgaria!” He stops at the door. “She was sent away from her home in disgrace. After living in the Manor, she travelled to America, where she still is, leaving a trail of disgrace wherever she goes. Underneath that charming, innocent exterior, she was manipulative. She got in between friends, relatives, _brothers_ …”

The flickering lights illuminate his tense side profile. She holds her breath as Elijah slowly turns and returns to his seat.

“I’m yet to understand how this is relevant to your work,” he says quietly.

Caroline wisely remains silent. Elijah pinches the bridge of his nose and continues.

“We realised quite late, of course. She was a good actress, and until the end neither Klaus nor I had any inkling. We fell in love with her in our own ways. It was hell when we finally found out the truth.”

“She played you because you stood to inherit the estate,” Caroline muses out loud. “And Klaus?”

There’s a long pause.

“Why did she choose Klaus?”

“I have not quite yet understood,” he finally admits. “Or perhaps I am in denial.” A bitter smile graces his features.

“You believe that she was genuinely in love with him?”

“You could say that.”

“But evidently not enough to stay when the truth was uncovered.”

There is a brief silence as Caroline scribbles a couple of lines in her journal. Meanwhile Elijah pours them some brandy.

Caroline taps her pen on the paper and watches a few drops of ink bloom on the sheet. “So how did Sir Mikael receive the news?”

Elijah gives her a wry smile. “How do you think? Two of his sons made fools of themselves over a girl. He was deeply disappointed. The Mikaelsons are made of stronger nerves, he said. He threatened to disown us.”

She feels her brows rise involuntarily. “Don’t you think he was overreacting?”

“Miss Forbes,” he says gravely. “Klaus was ready to run away with Tatia.”

.

.

When Caroline makes her way down to dinner, she finds the table set only for two.

“Where is everyone else?” she asks Bates, the Mikaelson butler who has been with the family for decades.

It seems that Esther and Rebekah are visiting a friend. Kol is eating in the village pub. Elijah is yet to return from London. “Tonight, it is only you and Mr. Niklaus, Miss Forbes.”

Her heart thuds at the prospect of eating dinner alone with Klaus. She hasn’t talked to him since their disagreement in the studio.

“Actually, Bates, if it isn’t too much trouble could you just send a cup of tea to the library? I’m not very hungry and want to finish writing a chapter tonight.”

“Sure, Miss Forbes. I’ll have a tray sent over.”

She nods and turns to leave, but not before catching a last glance of the table laden with twinkling candles. The setting, she thinks, under any other circumstances would have been quite romantic.

.

.

The timing of it all was suspect. Not long after Tatia Petrova left after disgracing the brothers did Mikael hang himself. Yes, it was a dishonourable situation but drastic enough for him to take his own life? Caroline frowns. Weaker families have weathered stronger scandals. There was clearly more here than met the eye.

She is in the middle of perusing archived letters when she comes across what she was looking for in the first place. 

As she had suspected, when the Mikaelsons sent their condolences to the grieving Petrova widow, there was no word of them offering their home for a place of respite. Instead, it was Tatia’s mother who requested if they could have her daughter over to stay.

 _She is in a deep shock,_ she wrote, _and can scarcely talk. I believe some time away in the bracing English country air amongst companions might do her good. You have always been able to count on me, Esther. We’ve been friends for years and know_ everything _about each other. I hope I will not be let down in this time of need._

Caroline’s brows rise of their accord. This was less of a request and more of a subtle threat. What did Tatia’s mother have over Esther?

The door to the library opens and she tells Bates, without turning around, to put the tray down on the table. The dull clang of silver echoes amidst the cavernous walls.

“Bates told me I would find you here.”

Caroline starts. She swiftly turns to see Klaus Mikaelson lounging against a bookcase, a sharp grin on his face.

“Were you the one who carried the tray inside?”

He shrugs. “I offered to. Since I was going the same way.”

She narrows her eyes. The expression on his face softens.

“I have to tell you, Miss Forbes. I am not going to apologise for what I said to you.”

“Well that hardly matters seeing that I neither expected nor needed your words of apology,” she scoffs.

Klaus takes a step towards her. His eyes are unwavering in their contact.

“What I will apologise for, however, is underestimating you.”

“I am used to that, Mr Mikaelson. Your hollow apology is not going to make any difference.”

“But would it if I offered the truth, and nothing but the truth?”

Caroline actually laughs out loud. “You must really think me a naïve fool, Mr Mikaelson.”

“That’s the thing, _Caroline_ ,” he whispers. “I don’t.”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t think you are a naïve fool. In fact, you are the complete opposite. Which is why I am offering to come clean, so to speak.”

She looks away from him and down at the letter she’s still clutching in her hands. She slowly slips the paper into her journal.

“A tempting offer but I have learned that our conceptions of what constitutes truth clearly differ.”

Klaus ducks his head and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “Well, what did you expect? My father had barely been lowered to the ground when a blonde American appeared out of nowhere, poking her nose into the family’s affairs. Asking questions about things that should be none of her business.

“For a long while it had only been us Mikaelsons. _Always_ _and_ _Forever_ , Rebekah used to say. And now a stranger had landed in the midst and unearthed everything we buried in order to protect ourselves. Finn gave up a long while ago. Elijah only cares about the business. Don’t you see, it was all up to me?”

“I think you forget, Mr Mikaelson, that it was your father himself who requested, no, _begged_ me to take up this job. I did not come here out of pleasure. I am only finishing what your father started.”

The anguished expression on his face fades, to be replaced by something bitter. “Father _thought_ he knew what was good for the family.”

“Irrespective of what you think of your late father’s intentions, I cannot leave without finishing my work. Technically I am still under his hire, being paid by the money left to his firm,” she reminds him.

“I did not take you to be someone who left things unfinished. You have a fire inside you, a steely determination. It’s… admirable.”

Caroline ignores the increased beating of her heart to ask: “So can I count on your cooperation, Mr Mikaelson?”

He smiles.

“Call me Klaus.”

.

.

_The motivation behind Klaus Mikaelson’s deception is fascinating. I did not expect him to feel so strongly about protecting the family’s interests. Lying out of pure self-interest, yes. Deceiving out of spite for his father, yes. But not telling the truth out of an unbreakable loyalty to the family? I must admit, that caught me off-guard._

_It turns out that father and son are even more alike than I had previously surmised. Their loyalty might manifest itself in different ways, but it is still very strongly linked._

_Yes, Klaus did not get along with Mikael. But in his very efforts to_ not _be_ _like his father, Klaus Mikaelson has become someone a lot like him._

Caroline carefully blots the ink, rereads the last line and decides not to send that to Enzo. It is definitely not because her mind seems to be dwelling less and less on Mikael’s death and more and more on the enigma that is Klaus Mikaelson.

.

.

One fine day, when the sun deigns to come out of the clouds and shine brightly on the manor grounds, Caroline decides to take her work out to the gazebo on the lawn.

Rebekah is already outside among the flowerbeds, dressed fetchingly in overalls and boots. The gardener, Donovan, shows her how to rake the soil and plant the bulbs.

Caroline sets a jar of ice-cold water on the little wooden bench and arranges her books and notes carefully. She spends a quarter of an hour writing about the architecture of the Manor, the extensive grounds and the lake that had once contained catfish imported from China. The sun beats down her back and she relishes its warmth on her bare shoulders.

Pausing amidst an account of the oldest book in the library (a Gutenberg Bible), she looks up to see Klaus sitting under the birch tree across the lawn, a sketchbook propped against his knees. She’s seen him scribbling in it once or twice before. He catches her gaze and stands up, dusting off his pants.

She is conscious of his stare the entire time he’s walking towards her, past the path that leads to the lake, past the rosebushes where Rebekah’s trimming the leaves. He stops at the threshold of the gazebo and shields his eyes against the sun’s glare.

“Do you mind?” he asks, pointing to the water jar now with condensation running down its sides.

“Of course not.”

Klaus steps inside into the cooling shade of the summer house and it is at this moment, sitting on the small wooden seat and looking up at him, is Caroline struck by his presence. He is not much taller than her but he seems to take up the entire space.

The water is no longer icy but he does not seem to mind, draining two glasses with a contented sigh. He wipes his wet lips with his wrist and sits down next to her. The sun suddenly seems too hot on the back of her neck.

“I needed that. You don’t realise how thirsty you are, sitting in the garden for hours, until you actually see water.”

Relations between them have been cordial, but not painfully so. True to his word, he spends time helping her with her work and showing her around the estate. Just yesterday, they passed hours talking about his childhood, so much so that they almost missed dinner. Klaus is free and disarming with his recollections, but Caroline continues to be wary. She is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She is also waiting for the right time to bring up Tatia Petrova. Firstly, she needs more information. Secondly, she needs to establish the right rapport with Klaus before bringing up this explosive subject. It is taking everything she has, with Klaus being so warm and open, not to just blurt out the question. There is a part of her, small but irrationally miffed, that wonders what Klaus ever saw in Tatia.

“You do not strike me as an outdoors man. I always imagined you to be brooding in a dark studio, the drapes drawn tight, not letting a single ray of sunlight trespass.”

“I must say, it’s flattering that I feature in your imaginations, love.”

She is wary of this as well, this flirtatious tone that seems to paint their interactions lately.

(They had stayed up all night once, sharing a bottle of whiskey, and Klaus had asked her about her years growing up in America. She had deflected it easily--she'd had a lot of practice. After all, there was a reason she had left and never looked back. Instead, she had spoken of all the places she'd wanted to visit but never gotten a chance to. 

"I'll take you, wherever you want," he had said, only half-joking. "I've heard Paris is good this time of the year.")

“More like the conjectures of the folk who live downstairs," she replies. "If one could hear them talk, one would believe you to be a Count Dracula of sorts, skulking about in the dead of the night, in search of his next prey.”

His face loses some of his amusement. “That’s all they know to do,” he mutters. “Gossip about things they are not aware of.”

Something possesses Caroline to briefly touch his hand. The dark look in his eyes momentarily falters.

“Don’t mind them,” she says. “They are a fanciful lot. However, they are not completely wrong. I _have_ seen you on the grounds a few times going to the greenhouse in the night. You must admit, it looks mighty suspicious.” She smiles but her eyes are serious.

Klaus looks surprised, undoubtedly because she had noticed. Well, he had not been very discreet.

At that moment, Rebekah rushes into the gazebo. She collapses on the seat opposite them and carelessly flings her gardening gloves aside with a sigh.

“Gosh, the weather’s so terribly pleasant, isn’t it?” she says. “I was going positively mad cooped up in the old house.”

Klaus shoots Caroline a warning glare while his sister’s gaze is averted.

Rebekah is still looking over at the flowerbeds where Donovan is digging with a spade, sweat pouring down his boyish face. “Who would think gardening would be so satisfying,” she asks no one in particular, “and exciting?”

Caroline nods at Klaus, giving him a placating gesture and smiles to herself. She does not care what he gets up to in the middle of the night. Her intention was to show him that she knows, that she’s always watching, and that just because they were supposedly on the same side didn’t mean she did not have the upper hand.

.

.

“I wished to speak with you.”

Kol Mikaelson looks up from the evening papers. “Speak then, Miss Forbes.”

Caroline casts a hurried glance towards the armchair in front of the fire where Klaus is currently sitting, ostensibly not listening.

“Somewhere a little more private, perhaps?”

“Hah, and to think I didn’t believe Lucien about American women being forward.” And to her mortification, Kol winks.

“I am not American,” she replies hurriedly. “And I felt the library would be better suited to our conversation.”

She leads Kol out of the room with only a little peek over her shoulder. Klaus is still frowning at something she can’t see.

“What did you wish to speak about?” says Kol as soon as he settles himself down on her favourite chair, feet propped up on the table.

“About your father. And get your feet off my notes, please.”

Predictably, Kol ignores her. “Oh, my father _this_ , my father _that_. I am bored sick of my father. Let us talk about something more interesting. Like you and Klaus, perhaps?”

“There is no me and Klaus,” she replies coolly.

His smile does not in any way make her feel comfortable in her assertions. “Fair enough. What about the ‘ _I_ _am_ _not_ _American’_ drill. Where are you from, anyway?”

“Nowhere.”

“Come on, that’s not true. There has to be someplace you call home, someplace you dream about at night when life seems too difficult.”

“There was. A small town in Virginia. But not anymore.”

“Is that so? I imagine it would make a good story.”

“It might. But now is not the time,” she snaps. “Do you think your father committed suicide because Tatia disgraced the family by seducing both Klaus and Elijah?”

Kol visibly flinches. She would have felt a smidgen of guilt but at least the smug smirk has been wiped off his face.

“Isn’t this something you should ask the two parties involved?” he asks after a moment of composing himself.

“Perhaps I required a third opinion? From someone who wasn’t directly involved, someone who watched his older brothers make fools of themselves, and for the first time it wasn’t him his father was despairing over. The Mikaelson name had been sullied by the two perfect brothers, so much so that the head of the family felt he had no choice but to tie a noose, step onto a stool and—”.

Kol stops her with a raised hand. He is unusually pale.

“That is quite enough, Miss Forbes. You have made your point.”

“I have spent weeks puzzling over the reason behind his death. And your family has done nothing but lead me on a frustrating chase. You are the only one who has offered something substantial, albeit in your own twisted way, dropping hints about death and dishonour. Which is why I’m asking again: did the situation between Tatia and your brothers disgrace Mikael so much that he took his own life?”

Caroline pauses to take a sip of water, her gaze still on Kol’s wan face. He rubs his eyes and sighs deeply.

“That is precisely what I thought in the beginning,” he begins. “But it felt off. It felt like an unnecessarily drastic step.”

“Despite everything you know about your father and his almost fanatic pride in the family name?”

“Despite all that, yes.”

“So you felt it was too drastic?”

“I did.” He pauses, and the words that come out next seem to pry themselves out of his mouth extremely unwillingly. “At least until I found out about the child.”

* * *

**From Caroline Forbes to Enzo St. John:**

Dear Enzo,

My heart is beating so loud it’s almost drowning out my thoughts. This new revelation makes a lot of things clearer. Tatia was with child, but no one knew who the father was. Kol also told me of the chauffeur, who claimed he had had relations with Tatia Petrova. There were three men, then, who could be the fathers of the child Tatia was carrying.

It is of no wonder why this would be extremely shameful to Mikael. To raise a child born out of wedlock as a Mikaelson when there was a strong likelihood its father was a common driver?

Simmons, the aforementioned chauffeur, was dismissed instantly, and was never informed of consequences of his ill-advised romp with Tatia. He died of alcoholism a few months later. As for the child, Tatia miscarried soon after, but not before the entire village became abreast with the news.

Imagine, Mikael’s first grandchild, the foremost of the new generations of Mikaelsons, a product of unimaginable disrepute and scandal, never living to see the light out of its mother’s womb.

And so finally, in the wake of this tragic and unfortunate tale, do his actions become crystal clear to me.

All that I have left to do is confirm the truth with Klaus. Wish me luck, Enzo.

Love,

Caroline.

* * *

 It is her day off, so to speak, and she finds herself knocking on Klaus’s studio. He’s at the table, reading a letter and looks up at her arrival.

“I can come back later,” she offers.

“No, it’s alright,” he says, stuffing the page back and snapping the lid shut. “Today’s a good day as any.”

“Let’s begin then.”

“Hold the brush firmly.” His fingers wrap themselves around hers as he readjusts her grip. Caroline resolutely ignores the way his touch lingers and burns. She also ignores the way his breath on the nape of her neck makes her shiver.

“I don’t think I will ever get the hang of it,” she grumbles.

“Patience, love. The art of expressing oneself on a canvas takes dedication.”

“And for what? To paint another moody landscape?”

Klaus smiles. She is yet to get accustomed with his smiles.

“That was what I was first taught to paint. Nature. And I suppose it stuck with me.”

She has decided today is the day she is going to plunge directly into murky waters. Asking Klaus if he was going to elope with a pregnant Tatia before Mikael found out would invariably deal a fiery blow to this sense of camaraderie she had built with him. But Caroline considers herself a bona fide seeker of the truth. And she is definitely not a coward.

Fate, however, has different plans for her. For just as she’s preparing herself for the sharp, swift dive, a muffled knock sounds at the door.

It’s Bates with a phone call for Klaus from Elijah.

“I have to take this, Caroline,” says Klaus with a hint of regret. “I’ll be back.”

Once he leaves for the study, Caroline washes her paint-speckled hands in the small basin. While turning to grab a rag to dry herself off, she stumbles and her shoulder collides violently with the table. A small tin box, already at the edge, teeters and falls.

Cursing and rubbing her stinging shoulder, Caroline kneels down to gather all the scattered papers and put them back into the box. And stops.

They seem to be letters to Klaus from a relatively well-known artist. Which would be unremarkable in itself if Caroline hadn’t spotted a particular word. A word that stops her cold.

Shaking, Caroline places the box on top of the table and takes a step back. Thoughts swirl madly in her head and she grasps wildly at them, attempting to form a coherent picture. Finally, she snags one. Esther.

She has to see Esther Mikaelson.

* * *

 

Finding Esther’s bedroom is easier than expected. The servants who had earlier so expertly manoeuvred Caroline away now scatter looking at the thunderous expression on her face. A particularly timid maid squeaks when Caroline brushes her off with an impatient gesture of her hand. The last hurdle, however, makes her stop in her tracks.

Rebekah slips out of her mother’s room and stands with her back against the door, arms crossed, effectively blocking the entry. “No,” she intones. “There was just one thing we asked of you. You cannot involve Mother in this.”

“I just need to talk to her for a few minutes,” begs Caroline. “That’s all. You can even stay in the room and kick me out if it gets too much for her.”

The cold expression on Rebekah’s face never wavers. “She’s been like this ever since Father died. She’s too ill to handle whatever you’re creating a ruckus about.”

Klaus is in the study, on the phone. There is no better time. “Tell her I know about Ansel!”

Rebekah’s arms tighten. “I don’t who that is.”

But a weak voice from within calls out. Pursing her lips, Rebekah opens the door a crack and sticks her head inside. A muffled conversation ensues. Finally, Rebekah sighs and stands aside.

“You can go in.”

The room is dark and musty, filled with the smell of medicine and an underlying tinge of urine. Caroline points at the large bay windows. “May I draw the curtains a bit?”

The dark, vague shape that is Esther nods. Caroline tugs the rope and the purple twilight filters through the room, illuminating the mistress of the household. Her eyes are sunken, her skin pale, there’s a slight droop to the left side of her face—Caroline immediately feels guilty for her brash behaviour.

“I am extremely sorry, Lady Mikaelson,” she begins. “I know this is a bad time seeing that you’re doing so poorly but I found this quite by accident, and I really needed to speak with you.”

“It’s alright,” says Esther. Her voice is brittle but still retains vestiges of pride. “I heard you through the door. My children have been keeping me abreast of your discoveries. I think it is about time.”

Esther makes herself comfortable on the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Her sleeves ride up, exposing bony arms riddled with yellowing bruises. She catches Caroline’s gaze and states, quite calmly, “I fell down the stairs.”

Caroline has been lied to numerous times over the past few weeks but this, perhaps, is the most unconvincing one. Before she can say anything, Esther launches into her tale.

“I met Ansel when he was a starving, unknown artist. He stayed at the Manor when we commissioned a few landscapes from him. He started teaching me how to paint.” A wistful smile lights up her features. “Those were the happiest months of my life. I’d forgotten that I could feel that way… Then I found out I was pregnant. Ansel absolutely could not stay after that. He begged me to come with me. My heart broke but I could not say yes. There was no other option for me. So I stayed with Mikael, who did not know the child wasn’t his. Ansel named him before he left: Niklaus.”

“When did Klaus find out?”

“Quite early. I suppose he’d always known he didn’t quite fit in. Perhaps I made a mistake telling him—it only served to further distance him from the family. It's why he welcomed the chance of going off to war. He came back a changed man."

“I saw the letters between him and Ansel,” says Caroline. “That’s how I realised.”

“Their correspondence started when Ansel started gaining recognition for his work. It was easier to get in touch with him now. I was afraid to do so but I encouraged Nik to initiate.” Esther dabs her eyes lightly. “Now with Mikael gone, he is finally free to embrace his legacy as his father’s son.”

“Which is not the only thing he is free to embrace,” mutters Caroline. “Along with fame, Ansel has accumulated quite a large fortune as well. I’m assuming that was what Tatia Petrova was after?”

Esther makes a face of displeasure. “Her mother and I used to be friends. When I had Nik, she was the only one who knew of his true parentage. She kept that trust until the time it became apparent what all Nik would gain being Ansel’s sole heir. So Tatia arrived at the Manor, with her eyes set on Klaus. She ensnared Elijah too, for good measure. I presume you know how all that ended?”

Caroline nods. “And in the aftermath of the mess, Sir Mikael found out about Klaus’s real father. The dishonour was too much for him and…he committed suicide.” She leans forward, eyes intent on Esther. “Lady Mikaelson, don’t you think there is something _off_ about this? Doesn’t the timing of it all strike you as awfully convenient?”

“You could say I was just terribly lucky.”

 Caroline whips around. Klaus is standing at the threshold, hands clasped behind his back, his frame vibrating with tension. Baring his teeth in a grin, he strides forward and it takes everything for her not to flinch. But he is only reaching for Esther.

Carefully, gently, Klaus draws up the bedcovers and rests a hand on his mother’s shoulders. She cups his cheek briefly and smiles.

“My mother needs to rest, Caroline,” he says, a storm brewing in his eyes. “You should leave.”

Drawing herself up straight, Caroline says firmly, “Not before we talk, Klaus.”

They stare at each other for what feels like a lifetime.

Finally, Klaus sighs. “Fine. But not here. Let’s take a walk.”

.

.

Somehow they find themselves heading towards the gazebo. Caroline sits on the edge of the wooden bench. The wind whips through her hair. Klaus collapses on the spot next to her, as if he has just emerged from a long-drawn battle. Perhaps he has, because for the first time, Klaus looks like a tired, tired man.

“Mikael has always had a violent temper. But it was an especially terrible night when he finally found out. Things were already tense in the house after Tatia left. Ah, Tatia,” and here a small, bitter smile plays on his face. “I thought I loved her. She represented my escape from this family. I would have respected her canniness—it _is_ a tough world out there, she was doing all she can to survive—if she hadn’t let the truth about my parentage slip to Mikael.”

Klaus draws a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He offers her one but she shakes her head. He inhales and leans his head back, seemingly visibly relaxed. It’s the first time she’s seen him smoke.

“He was apoplectic with rage. He took most of it out on Mother. Turned out she had been taking the brunt of it all these years.” Klaus takes a leisurely drag, and tapping out the ash he turns to her and says, “It was obvious Mikael had to die for that.”

Seeing Esther’s bruises and hearing her story, Caroline had an inkling of where it was all heading. Yet, the words hit as hard as a sledgehammer. The initial shock wears off and she sits rooted to the spot, curiously numb, waiting for him to continue.

Klaus grins—a sudden, sharp thing—at her lack of reaction. “It was easy, you know. Slipping the noose around his neck, tightening it. Hoisting him up the rafters. His eyes were open till the end—he knew it was me, he knew I was going to be the last thing he’d see. You wouldn’t believe how much I relished that, Caroline.” A pause as he lights another cigarette. “Of course he struggled, clawed at his neck. The coroner chalked it up to last-minute regrets—apparently this is common with those who hang themselves.” Klaus laughs. “Mikael was so obsessed with creating grand narratives around himself and the _honour_ of the family that he never realised how the very same narrative would trap him. No one even doubted for a second that he had committed suicide. They’d heard of Tatia and us, the disgraced brothers. They kept it from the public out of respect for our family, but they _knew_. I planned it carefully, you know. Waited for a night when Mikael would let his guard down—”.

A chill runs down Caroline’s spine. “What did Rebekah put in the Darjeeling tea, Klaus?”

At this, Klaus, who’d been nothing but full of morbid candour till now, immediately shuts down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Caroline leans forward. “Come on, Klaus. Your siblings must have found out about you that night. And from everything I know of them, they must have taken your side. It was probably Elijah who sat up with your mother, so she wouldn’t suspect anything. Rebekah and Kol chatted with Mikael until the effects of the sedative took hold. And then you stepped into the room. It was planned carefully, all right.”

Klaus shook his head vehemently. “It was only me. All me. They had nothing to do with Mikael’s death. I planned it, and I carried out the sentence. So if you want to damn anyone, damn _me_! Leave my siblings out of it.”

“If you say so,” replies Caroline slowly. “I have another question.”

“Go ahead, Caroline.”

“Why were you always wandering the grounds in the middle of the night?”

This time when Klaus laughs, it is genuine. “That was not me.”

Taken aback, she blinks. “That wasn’t? But it was your fur coat I saw.”

“That was Rebekah on her frequent dalliances with Donovan, the gardener. She’d always borrow my coat because it was bulky enough to hide her, that trollop,” he adds fondly. “It’s true that I rarely slept through the night but that was more because my creative urges strike after the sun sets. I never ventured out of the house.”

“Oh, well. That’s one mystery solved.”

Her smile fades as she is struck anew the weight of what he has previously confessed. They’re close, closer than they’ve ever been before. Her heart is beating so hard she’s almost certain he can feel it.

“So, Caroline, you know everything now,” whispers Klaus. “I’m a murderer. Aren’t you afraid of me?” The reckless, goading air is back, but underneath it all vulnerability shines through the cracks. “What are you going to do with my confession?”

It is at that moment Caroline realises that the ghost of Mikaelson Manor was not Mikael, was _never_ Mikael, and that it is up to her to set it free.

* * *

 

**From Caroline Forbes to Enzo St. John:**

Dear Enzo,

Yes, you heard me right on the telephone. I am not finishing this book. If the details would ever come out, it would ruin a lot many people’s lives and I find that my conscience cannot condone that.

Like I told you, Mikael found out that he wasn’t Klaus’s real father. That, coupled with Tatia disgracing both his sons proved to be the last straw. He took his own life rather than live in dishonour in a family he felt had been tarnished. It is a tale of tragedy and I do not see how publishing the book would benefit anyone in any way.

So goodbye for now, my dear Enzo. I am taking an extended break. I am going to work on my novel—it’s going to be about happy families, with well-adjusted people, maybe with some romance thrown in.

I’ve heard Paris is good this time of the year.

Love always,

Caroline.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

THE END.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried something different from my usual style for this, guys. Let me know your thoughts. Your comments would be much appreciated :)


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